Set Free
by Firestar9mm
Summary: Steve's thoughts through the events of CODE: Veronica. It's my first post in a while, reviews would be greatly appreciated!


Random disclaimer: Capcom owns Resident Evil and probably my soul by this time.  This fanfiction was written for entertainment purposes only.  At least, I hope it'll entertain someone.

*****

**Set Free**

*****

            _Click_.

            _Click_.

            I can feel the muscles of my face slide into an expression of disbelief, and I try the gun again.

            _Click_.

            _Click_, _click_, _click_...

            Empty.  The gun's empty. 

            They're _both_ empty!

            Enraged suddenly by the broken promise, by the joke at my expense, by her duplicity and treachery, I whirl to face her.  "They're _empty_."

            She's laughing at me, delighted with her own cleverness.  She stands within reach as if she thinks nothing can happen to her; as if she weren't just in mortal danger a second ago, and laughs at me with a face to match the angel's on the back of her vest.  (Silly little boy.  Don't you know that I know all, and you know nothing? Don't you know that I will live forever?)

            Yeah, right.  She seems to forget that only minutes ago the bandersnatch had the upper hand, and it was clasped over her face.  She's not even breathing hard.  It's like it was nothing to her.  She'd be fish food if I hadn't shown up to save her, and she repays me for it with worthless weapons, then laughs like it's all some wonderful game.  

            Is that what it is to her? A game? Those things outside aren't going to just quit when she's tired of playing.  Alfred Ashford strikes me as a bit of a sore loser; I don't think he'll just pack up his toys and go home.

            Her laughter has died to a soft chuckle; the bandersnatch is twitching and bleeding behind her as she smiles.  Blood spreads in a widening pool beneath the shuddering carcass; she steps absently aside to keep it off her boots, as if she hasn't spent the entire evening wading through a garden of flesh and bones.  

            I hate her.

            I hate her for worrying about her shoes, as if the death was just a minor inconvenience.  As if this whole thing is just a giant inconvenience.  She started the evening in a jail cell, and all she seems to think is "Oh, well.  Another stupid day." 

            What was she imprisoned for, anyway...?

            I hate her for the steely focus in her eyes as she sent an email to that Leon of hers, for the surety in her voice when she assured me her brother would come to save her.  How nice it must be to have someone to depend on, to believe in something...someone.  

            Bitch.  She's so sure of everything.  It's only going to make her hurt more when the people she depends on let her down.  She wouldn't smile like that if she knew...

            And I hate her.  I hate her for not being let down.  I can tell by the corners of her lips, twitched upward into a pale shadow of that smile, that she's always had someone to depend on.  _She's_ never had to suffer like I have...look at her, smiling at me as if she's patiently waiting for me to do something she wants...

            Bitch! How dare she look so calm! How dare she laugh and smile when the world has turned dark and gone mad all around us!

            What I'm thinking must show on my face, for she immediately tries to soothe me with that dangerous voice, the sound of the dark inside of a movie theater, the sound of a four a.m. hallway.  A soft, sweet, have-to-get-up-in-the-morning voice.

            "Look over there.  There's plenty of ammo, just for you.  Here," she says brightly, as if struck by a wonderful idea, "give me a boost.  I'll get it for you."

            (Oh, now we're so helpful!) I think bitterly, even as I follow her to the enormous metal crate she's pointing to.  (Don't do me any fucking favors.) But I kneel down to give her a boost to the top of the crate.

            She hops easily onto my back, the heels of her boots digging in painfully.  "Jeez, you're heavier than you look!" I snarl.  I can't tell if she hears me or not, if she even cares.  She probably didn't hear; she's sure taking her sweet time up there.  "Hurry up!" I order, and she jumps off my back.  

            I stand up, still feeling the ghost of her heels on my shoulders.  She smiles and presents the clips to me as if they're precious jewels, as if she's done something completely wonderful, a child waiting to be praised.  I snatch the clips from her, loading the guns.  "Thanks," I mutter.

            She's still smiling at how it's all turned out, like a little girl who's played a trick and gotten away with it.  She follows me to the heavy metal door, and I smirk a little as I move aside to let her through.  It's not because I believe a lady should walk before a gentleman.  It's because I don't trust her at my back.

*****

            I can hear her breathing behind me.  The sound is comforting, because as much as she infuriates me and intrigues me and confuses me, she's alive.  We're both still alive.

            I find myself kneeling over the body.  I have to think of it as _the_ _body_, and not my father, not the man in the photograph, not my daddy, not even the man who got us trapped here.  Just the body.  If I think of it any other way, I'll surely go mad, and scream myself to death in this dark basement.  I don't want to die here, dusty and insane.  I don't want to die in the dirt, in the dark, in the damp...

            I'm startled by her touch.  There's nothing clumsy about it; suddenly her hand is just on my shoulder, gentle and almost weightless.  Of course she would be a casual toucher; meanwhile I'm jumping out of my skin.

            "It's going to be okay," she says in that soothing voice, but this time there's no trace of laughter in her words.  Even so, I hate her for lying.  Lies, everything that spills from her lips has been a lie.  What does she know? What does she care? She hasn't lost everything...

            But I find myself telling her the story, the words tumbling over each other as I stare at the body, almost as if I could watch it decay.  She's a liar, a nuisance, a riddle, but most of all she's someone.  Whether I can trust her or not, she's someone, and I need to talk to someone.  

            She listens.  She doesn't say anything, except to repeat her earlier assurance that everything is okay now.  I don't believe her.  I can't believe her, but I feel myself smiling at her anyway.

*****

            The cockpit glass is smeary, opaque.  A mystery, like the night beyond it, like the girl beside me.

            I hate her.  I hate her for sleeping so soundly.

            Her lashes aren't even fluttering.  They lay heavy on her pale cheek, and the corners of her full lips are twitched upwards slightly, a ghost of a smile.  Her body is completely relaxed.  I don't know exactly what happened in the cargo area of the plane, but she swept her bangs away from those insolent blue eyes and waved a hand dismissively at me.  

            "Just a little cockroach that needed smashing," she said glibly.  That voice, even in its smoothness, still has a childish ring to it.  All in a day's work, she seems to be saying.

            It makes me wonder just a little about her day.  What constitutes a normal day for her, if decomposing monsters don't make her run screaming?

            I hate her for mentioning Hawaii.  As if all that's necessary to forget this entire incident is a simple vacation.  She still doesn't get it! You can't just wave a wand and make everything all better! She's still acting like this whole thing is just a pleasure cruise.

            She stirs a little, leaning against my shoulder.  Part of me wants to wrap an arm around her, hold her close, hold on to her.  Part of me wants to push her away, send her unbalanced and skittering across the hard metal floor.  

            I realize suddenly as she dozes against my shoulder that she won't care what I do, could never care.  It's like when she tricked me into giving her the golden guns—she's always thinking about the end, not the means.  She's so caught up in her own agenda that I don't even register on her radar.

            I find myself drawing closer to her, studying her face.  Who is she really? All I know of her is blood and bones, locked doors, golden guns.  We're close, so close our breath mingles, and somehow she's a million miles away.  I can't reach her, could never reach her.

            I rise to my feet angrily.  She hardly stirs, proving my point.  I watch her as she sleeps, distant and cold as the stars outside that opaque cockpit glass.

*****

            She's held captive by the tentacle, her feet dangling above the floor, helpless as a kitten.

            Who is she? 

            I'm trying to remember something, anything about her, trying to see her as more than just a warm, struggling animal.  Trying to stop the axe from feeling alive in my hands.  I know what the axe wants to do, what my hands want to do.  And yet I hesitate.

            Something in me remembers hating her.  Something in me remembers wanting her to hurt, to feel the pain I've felt for so long...and yet I wait.

            She fights against the tentacle holding her fast, that infuriating smile finally knocked away by fear.  It's what I've wanted all along...isn't it?

            I can't remember.

            Something in me whispers, (kill her.  Make her hurt...) but I can't follow through with it.  And all the hatred, all the things I ever wanted to say to her—it all just fades away.  I realize, or the part of me that's still Steve Burnside realizes, that if she can just get past this last monster...me...then she's done it.  Everything she's said has come to pass—she's done it all.  She's made it through.  Her brother's come to help her.  She's going home.  

            I can't take that away from her.  I don't want to.  I can't take away her chance.  She's the first person who didn't leave me.  I have to let her go.  Set her free.

            I look her in the eye, and I manage to remember the most important thing, the only word I can force from a face that's twisted horribly, a comedic parody of my expression when I realized those machine guns were empty.

            "Claire."

****************

**Author's Note**:

I chatted with Steve Burnside for the very first time (we do NOT get along, probably due to the fact that I am Leon Kennedy's love slave) as a break from studying (I rarely ever discipline myself to really study, but my straight "C" in ethics was in serious danger of becoming a "D".) and this story was the result.  I am not a Steve fan at all, but I did want to see what would happen if I put my own personal spin on his scenes in "CODE: Veronica".  

"You're always so mean to me," Steve whined.  "Do something nice for a change."

I couldn't argue with that one.  It was nice to have a break, and behold: I got a B on my ethics midterm.  Thanks, Steve.  Now don't say I never gave you anything. *^ _^*

I crave reviews of all kinds.  Good, bad, indifferent--I can take it.  Just say something.  Thank you! *^_^*


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